


The One Where It's 4:00am and They're Sleep Deprived

by bisoubisou



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4525134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisoubisou/pseuds/bisoubisou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first kiss happens when Hugo is completely out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where It's 4:00am and They're Sleep Deprived

**Author's Note:**

> For the love of Pete if you're either one of these two click the back button.

Their first kiss happens when Hugo is completely out of it.

Looking back on it, it could’ve been a lot worse, he supposes. Porter was renting an apartment in LA for a few months while he mastered some tracks, and he invited the guys over one night. They kept it low key, the two of them and Anton and Dillon, with just video games and pizza and beer. But once they started marathoning, the hours started to speed by faster and faster. Hugo supposed the night was over not when he heard the birds chirping outside, but when Dillon fell asleep sitting up and his face landed on the controller in his lap.

He wakes up with a start. “Fuck! Fuck. Did I die?” He rubs his eyes and blearily looks at the TV.

Anton pats his thigh. Locking eyes with him, he presses the button on his controller that makes his character kill Dillon’s.

“You fuck.” Dillon whispers.

“Time to go home,” Anton says cheerily, like it’s not four in the morning and they haven’t been up for over 20 hours each.

Hugo’s sprawled out on the couch on his stomach, long arm draped over the front and elbow touching the floor. His fingers rest on his controller on the carpet, and he barely manages to raise them in a goodbye as he hears Porter walk them to the door and into the hallway.

He hears Porter shuffle aside pizza boxes, and try to quietly grab bottles and cans. A particularly loud clang of glass on glass wakes Hugo up fully, and he rolls over onto his back.

“Sorry about that,” Porter whispers.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Hugo tries to get his bearings enough to sit up, hands scrabbling at the back of the couch to try and push himself to a right angle. 

“You don’t have to leave, you can crash here if you want. I have plenty of room,” Porter’s voice gets closer as it comes in from the kitchen, and Hugo attempts to open his eyes all the way.

“I should probably --” Oh, that’s not his voice. That’s about four octaves lower than his actual voice, and covered in sandpaper as well. Awesome. He clears his throat and tries again. “I should probably go back to the hotel,” he says, and even as the words are coming out of his mouth they sound like a question.

“You can barely keep your eyes open. I’ll bring you a blanket and a pillow.” It’s not really a suggestion anymore and Hugo’s so bodily exhausted that he doesn’t even realize he’s nodding before Porter’s sentence is completely finished.

Porter disappears to his bedroom for a minute, so Hugo tries to get a bit more comfortable. He doesn’t even try getting his jacket off, and attempting to actually get his ankle up on his knee to remove his shoe proves to be impossible.

Porter walks back in when Hugo’s in a weird pretzel position, foot up against the side of his calf and long arms flailing a bit in the direction of his shoe. Eyes fully closed but with a wrinkled brow, he almost wants to let him keep trying until he gets it. And film it. And post it on Instagram.

But his good heart gets the better of him so Porter walks over and drops the blanket on the couch, leaning over to push Hugo’s arms out of the way. Porter sits on the coffee table facing him, and leans down to take off one of Hugo’s shoes and place it gently on the floor.

Hugo’s eyes crack open a little bit when Porter speaks, “Other leg, Hugo,” and he feels him tapping against his thigh. Hugo manages to bend his knee far back enough to put his foot in Porter’s lap, his eyes opening all the way to watch his friend undo the laces carefully and pull off the shoe. When Porter bends to set his leg down, the tendons in his neck stretch. They pull perpendicular to the round, worn collar of his t-shirt, which Hugo now has a clear view down the front of. He wonders how all this saliva got into his mouth all of the sudden and he swallows it down thick.

“Jacket, too.” Porter points and Hugo wordlessly lifts his hands, flushing hotly. Porter leans forward to grab the collar and pulls it back, Hugo’s arms stretching up over his head as Porter stands fully and the soft black varsity jacket clears Hugo’s head. Hugo’s eyes are forced open now, focused clearly on the narrow strip of abdomen he sees as Porter’s arms raise. He licks his lips and at the moment doesn’t understand why.

Hugo will later blame his lack of restraint on being exhausted, because it’s way too forward for how he usually acts and it’s definitely not how he envisioned this going. 

Porter goes to sit back down on the table, jacket in hand, and Hugo sort of all in one fluid motion takes the soft fleece from Porter’s fingers and lets it fall on the floor while running his palms up his arms to grip at the hard caps of Porter’s shoulders. A look of confusion washes over Porter’s face as he looks down at the delicate arms that encircle him, then widely back up in Hugo’s eyes.

Hugo gives him a minute. All of the other times he’s had this chance run through his mind. Parties where they’re the last two standing, dusk til dawn sessions locked in studios, in dark backstage corners with no prying eyes anywhere near them. Hugo feels the tension all the time now, after years of trying to shut it away and ignore it. Tension that started behind a keyboard and a Skype screen, if he’s being honest with himself. Clearly, there’s no turning back now. He’s sure, he knows that now that he’s here finally, but he needs to know Porter is too. 

Hugo searches his friend’s deep-set eyes. There’s no doubt there’s uncertainty there, but it’s surrounded by anticipation. He sees it in the pink dusted high on Porter’s cheeks, the rise and fall of his chest above the worn t-shirt collar, the way Porter gently parts his lips to exhale. 

Hugo prefers to dive head first. Heart threatening to beat out of his chest, Hugo’s hands finish the trip up and cradle Porter’s face, leaning forward and bringing it slowly against his own.

It’s soft but full, the first press of their lips together, warm and tasting like sticky sweet energy drink. Porter breathes under him, maddeningly slow, and Hugo keeps it innocent. Chaste.

But Hugo can feel Porter trembling under the pads of his fingers and his confidence starts to wane, breaking them apart slowly and backing away. It felt like forever and it’s over too fast, all at once.

They stay close, Porter’s eyes opening back up long after Hugo’s. Hugo searches them, tries to get a read in the neutral silence that’s eating away at his hopefulness, each second without movement feeling like it’s sealing Hugo’s fate. He shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have tried it now. Shouldn’t have tried it ever. Now I’ll lose him forever, we’ll never be able to come back from this. I’ve messed everything up. The thoughts start to tumble in like a landslide, pebbles at first until the whole fucking mountain is coming down, and Hugo is slowly dragging his fingers inch by inch off Porter’s face and leaning back further.

He’s almost clear when Porter grabs his hand, using his other to push Hugo’s shoulders back against the couch as he climbs into his lap. Hugo can’t think straight, barely registers Porter sliding Hugo’s hand around his waist as he sits lightly on Hugo’s thighs. Hugo only sees a flash of white teeth as Porter’s mouth connects with his again, and again and again, deeper and wetter and way fucking hotter than the first time.

Porter makes a little mewling sound in the back of his throat when Hugo slips a hand into his hair and pulls a little on the strands. Porter presses into his touch as he leans his forehead against Hugo’s, flushed and grinning.

It’s infectious, the small pants coming out of the wide smile bracketed by dimples, dark eyes trained only on Hugo. He set this whole thing in motion but he really can’t believe they’re here, that this has happened and it’s turned out this way. He thinks some day soon he’ll tell Porter all that, all the things he thinks about him and the ways he makes him feel, he doesn’t want to hide anything from him, ever, but right now he doesn’t know why he’s not kissing him anymore and he’d like to fix that problem before he does anything else, thanks.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” Porter says. 

Hugo can’t find his voice, so he just keeps looking up at the pair of fluttering eyelashes and pink lips, because they look like they have more to say.

The grin melts away, turns softer, fond. Porter’s arms had come up around Hugo’s shoulders to balance himself when he first sat down, and he trails them down now, presses his palms into the front of Hugo’s shirt. Porter looks down and all Hugo can see is the slope of his nose, the skewed swipe of his hair. Teeth as they come out and worry against the bruised bottom lip.

“The whole time I’ve known you, if I'm being honest.”

Hugo prefers to study the water a long time before jumping in. Calculated moves with precision. Always diving head first, eyes trained on the water, always able to anticipate every ripple. 

But this time he closes his eyes, tightens his grip on the back of Porter’s neck, and jumps in with both feet.


End file.
